White Collar Reboot
by piper.ellis
Summary: This isn't about Neal Caffery. This is about something Neal Caffery did.
1. How it all Starts

How it all starts

FBI Agent Peter Burke felt his stomach fall as it clicked into place. "Wait!" he demand, his voice cutting sharply against the tension of the room full of agents. Too late; a muffled explosion rolled over them and soon dark smoke billowed into the room.

Concern for the agents cracking open the safety deposit sent him running into the adjacent room only to be met by them rushing out, ruffled but unharmed. Small mercies: their only solid lead had just gone up in smoke. Literally.

Peter ran his hands thru his hair as an excuse to dislodge dust and what ever other particulate had also momentarily suspended in the air.

"How did you know?"

It took a moment for him to lift his eyes to find Clinton Jones watching him. Peter really liked this agent; he swallowed down some of his bitterness but spoke loud enough to be heard by all the agents in the room. "3 2 4. Look at your phones." Free hands fumbled as people complied but Jones was the first one, the only one on the immediate uptake: "FBI". Jones hadn't even bothered to pull out his phone, had just tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up to the right at nothing as he thought it thru.

Burke nodded; "Booby trapped."

Muttered curses echoed thru the crowd; "Knew we were coming" one agent groused but the voice was too soft and low to identify who. Rolling his shoulders Burke regathered his thoughts. The ever elusive Dutchman was quickly climbing the ranks into his toughest cases. This little trick with the safe meant a multitude of things but Peter doubted it was a direct attack, not with all of the damage directed inside the security box. No, it was much more likely the ever-cautious forger was hedging bets. If Caffery had even half of the Dutchman's caution Burke knew he'd still be after that particular con/forger/thief. For a moment the corner of his mouth tipped into a satisfied smirk; yes, he'd caught Caffery and Caffery was cooling his heels in side maximum security prison. He'd get this one too, it was just a matter of time.

The staccato of a determined step crossing into the room had him looking over his shoulder. He smoothed out his expression as his latest probie, Agent Diana Berrigan found his eyes and held them, her expression serious. He'd left her in the office with the remainder of the white collar team, running after leads on this and half a dozen other cases.

"What is it?"

"Neal Caffery. He's escaped."

_Speak of the devil _the dry rasp of his grandmother's voice echoed up to him out of his memories. He took a deep breath, his eyes flitting over the assembly, meeting Jones'. "Stokes - you're in charge here. Jones, take Berrigan back to the office."

Jones just nodded. "And you?" he asked.

"I'm going to find out what the hell was going on that they let Neal Caffery out."

The Jones and Berrigan fell in at Burke's shoulders as he strode out of the building.

"He couldn't have had much left to his sentence" Jones noted.

Burke did some fast math in his head and nearly stuttered a step. "Less than four months" he provided, his step reviving even stronger; just a few days more than three months really Burke tallied up. The kid was nearly done and nearly to walking out with a clean-as-could-be-slate so the question blaring at Burke was "why now?"

Hours later Peter pulled up at the address he'd been directed to and cased the building with a professional eye. The ascetic was in line with what he could imagine Caffery's girlfriend Kate Moreau living in - it blended in with the NoHo neighborhood, didn't have a doorman, but was no doubt a chic building with chic lofts full of successful young urbanites who wanted loft-style couture whether or not they understood it. Peter knew Kate understood. In some ways he'd gathered more information on Moreau than he had on Caffery but it was by virtue that the woman had never had a rotating plethora of identities. Peter knew on paper her childhood, her parents, her education, her few semesters in Berkley, her year as an exchange student in France and the year she'd remained after that. That was when she'd stopped attending college and he wondered what had happened those two years because she moved back state side to New York City and stopped contacting the few she'd kept up with from home.

He hadn't kept up with her since Caffery had been sentenced but his people had provided this address as her residence fairly quickly. If he'd find Caffery anywhere he'd find him using Moreau. Again. A small number of other cars positioned themselves around the block and Peter knew agents were hustling down blind sight lines and up to roof tops. Scanning the block his eyes caught a black and white and two unmarked sedans. The police were already present. Odd; SWAT, marshals and FBI all were out in force but he didn't remember arranging for the LEO's to be included. He angled between the sedans as he stepped up onto the curb as an excuse to rest his hand on the hood - it was cold - LEO's had been here for a while.

Unease tumbled down; he hadn't Moreau's address more than thirty minutes. He'd spent the afternoon at the prison, learning how a tape recorder and the warden's wife am-ex supplied everything needed for a prison break: guard uniform, books on car maintenance, plane tickets to five locations in five different aliases, one alias fresh to the FBI even. Grudging admiration for Caffery was back even if it rode on heels of furry that the kid had been able to get out at all — on a month in a half of prep god damn it. He had been driving home to Brooklyn, mind on lines to follow up as slowly calls came back from his people : finding video of the hot-wired van entering in long term parking at JFK, and much later said van found tucked in next to a pillar hiding it from the monitoring camera. A task force was scouring all airports for any of Caffery's alias' and coordinating with interpol but Peter had insisted on keeping a few agents, namely Jones and Berrigan, following up other things, namely getting this address right here. Berrigan's call had come thru just as he'd neared the bridge to Brooklyn and he'd made the last turn possible onto a side street to turn around and stay on Manhattan. The airport parking pamphlet he'd taken out of Caffery's cell kept floating around the front of his mind, sure it was a clue but not sure why as he read up and down the prices of valet and parking options, like the long term parking where Caffery'd stashed the van.

A fellow agent hustled over to him as he approached to entry way, handing him a radio, muttering 'channel 5' before hustling away and a very shinny, pristinely waxed Benz caught his eye. No one would park a car that nice, that loved, out on the street. The 'valet' portion of the pamphlet raced forward and Peter connected the dots - son of a bitch - and he nearly chuckled. Caffery was definitely here.

Peter adjusted the channel and pressed down the button, "Somebody check out the black Benz with personalized plates."

"Copy" barked back over the radio and Peter winced, turning down the volume. He wondered idly if just maybe Kate had called the cops on Neal as she'd evidently broken up with Neal with prejudice on her last visit six weeks ago. Pushing thru the doors, Peter considered how the pair's somewhat rocky love had garnered him more insight on who Neal actually was than all the evidence Peter had put together.

Like France, Peter wondered what had passed in these six weeks that had turned Kate against Neal after 45 months of faithful visiting. He wondered if she realized she was an agent in gratis apprehending Neal for a second time, wondered if she was that vindictive, wondered if she'd stayed in the game this entire time and they'd missed it. In the lobby he glanced around, spotting a wide bank of stars and an elevator, freight sized with grates belying the former purpose of the building. Peter opted for the stairs. It was only four stories and Moreau was at the top. "Watch the entrance, there's an elevator. I'm taking the stairs" Peter reported as he started the climb, a team of four shadowing him.

Despite the mid evening hour the building was quiet. He nodded to the one other he passed on the stairs. Arriving at the top he glanced up and down the hall. Unease landed harder as he recognized a uniform guarding Moreau's door. Pressing down the button on the radio he requested "Hold. Hold until you hear from me" and waived the agents following him to wait, cautiously walking up to the cop. He reached slowly inside his jacket, his other hand up in a nonthreatening gesture, and pulled out his badge as he watched the cop size them up.

"What's going on here?" he asked, trying to peer beyond the blue uniform into the loft.

"Why's FBI asking?" the cop replied, his tone at least neutral even if his stance became more sentinel.

"I have adequate reason to believe an escaped convict is here or has recently been here."

The cop's eyes remained professionally blank but he met Peter's eyes and then nodded sharply, knocking on the door frame and moving to duck his head thru the door. "Hey detectives, I think there's someone here who wants to speak with you."

"Let him in" a female directed from inside.

The cop nodded at him and held the door in enough for Peter to enter, pulling it closed on Peter's back. Inside Peter found a few uniforms meticulously dusting the open, whitewashed loft. There was no furniture. The loft had been cleared out, only a bicycle leaning against a whitewashed wall and a film of over everything. A number of yellow markers were scattered across the floor. Two plain-closed detectives faced his direction but their attention was on the ME crouched over the body laid out across the floor. The head and torso of the body angled out of sight behind the ME's crouch but flat black guard shoes and black polyester uniform pants were plainly visible from where Peter stood just inside the door.

Peter hadn't realized he'd cleared his throat until he found himself staring into the dark, measuring eyes of one of the detectives standing over the body, his appraisal reminding Peter a bit of Jones and Peter wondered if the man was also former military. Bile soured and gathered in the corners of his jaw and the burn of stomach acid kept climbing upwards and upwards and he swallowed it back again.

"Do you recognize him?" the woman asked. Peter inched his gaze deeper into the room, to where she stood beside her partner at the head of the body. She was tall and slim, radiating a certain natural authority, clearly the top dog of the room, but, different from her partner, hell — from every other LEO on the premise — her eyes regarded him with a surprising amount of compassion.

Jesus. Peter took another step in, closer to the feet of the corpse, and there it was, all in view, all at once. Above the flat black dress shoes, and ugly polyester pants was a white, v neck undershirt, no doubt prison issue, finally bearing a graceful column of neck, clean shaven chiseled jaw, and blank, hollow blue eyes starring skyward without focus. Tousled brown hair fell back from a relaxed brow and the mouth was slack, sinking under gravity's pull into the beginnings of a corpse's grin.

Jesus Christ God, Holy Mother Mary.

This wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to walk in and gloat about how easy he'd found Caffery yet again. Instead he was standing next to the kid's corpse. There was a divot centered above Caffery's brows shining dark red, the only blemish adonis's face. Spatter had blown blood and etc across the windows of Moreau's loft while the rest of his blood and grey matter had drained out the back and pooled underneath the shoulders and down bare arms in a sticky mess of congealing blood.

Peter swallowed. "How long's he been like this?" he asked helplessly.

The ME twisted too look up over her shoulder and find his eyes, "Best as I can tell between two to four hours." She pointed at the hands, lax against the floor, "He's got some broken fingers and some weak ribs. Any idea's on why that might have happened?"

Peter shook his head, the rush of blood sloshing noisily inside back and forth with the motion. "Caffery didn't do violence. He hated it, thought it was a sign of stupidity, poor planning."

"Caffery?" The lead detective asked again.

"Neal Caffery. Escaped felon."

"Explains the lack of ID" the other detective spoke up.

"How long's he been on the run?" the first detective asked.

"Since 10 a.m."

The second detective whistle softly thru his teeth, a slight look of respect cresting his brows, "You boys in the Bureau sure work fast."

Peter shrugged, "Not fast enough."

"Detective Beckett" the woman introduced herself, reaching forward to shake his hand.

"Agent Peter Burke."

"Detective Esposito" the other detective offered.

The ME rose to her feet, "And I'm Doctor Parish." She looked at Detective Beckett, "I'm good here if you are."

Three sets of eyes landed on Peter and he found his eyes drawn back down to the corpse at his feet. The surreality of it all holding a wicked donkey punch of reality at bay.

Peter shrugged. "This is your case, detectives, but if you want it you're going to have to fight to keep it."

Detective Esposito swore under his breath, muttering "Marshall's".

Peter turned away from the body, walking deeper into the apartment. He'd searched it, once, just after Caffery had been charged. Kate, verbally vicious and high tempered had sniped and flown behind them every moment they searched but had never crossed the line so far as to have herself arrested. She'd walked the line perfectly. In their interrogations of her she'd shut the out, shut them down, a blank wall. She'd shown up to the trial every day and part of Peter had hated Neal for seemingly deigning to enter the legal process as some form of commitment to Kate, not as any sign of remorse or penance, or because he'd finally been legitimately caught. In Peter's mind's eye he remembered how it was, how this corner was a set of low shelves with cushions atop for a faux window/bench seat with a small, vibrant, deeply played Moroccan rug and a set of eames chairs. Now it was naked factory windows surrounding a dusty cement box.

"Agent Burke?" Detective Beckett spoke up.

Peter turned to face her, his back to the corner he'd wandered into. "Yes?"

"I"d like to talk to you more about Neal Caffery."

Peter gathered his bearings, running thru the agencies responses… the agencies… shit. "One moment, Detective" and Peter grabbed is radio, flashing Beckett an apologetic glance. "Stand down. Every one stand down."

A crackle and Berrigan's voice broadcast back, her incredulity carrying, "No Caffery?"

Peter swallowed, his eyes falling to the open black bag and the ME and LEO's shifting the body into it, a muddy reverse silhouette left behind in the lake of tacky, brown blood. "Caffery's dead. Some one else got here first."

Silence dominated the shared frequency.

"What now, Boss?" Berrigan spoke after a multitude of seconds.

"NYPD has the scene processed and they're taking the body. This is their case now" he announced for the benefit of all and sundry.

Beckett raised a brow, clearly having expected some further form of entrenchment despite his earlier, personal renunciation of the murder case. .

Peter shook his head, pointing at himself, clarifying "White collar."

He caught the flash of pity before she very quickly shuttered it away. He gave a slight smirk, "I like puzzles that don't include a body count."

"I take it Neal felt the same?" she ventured.

A slight shock ran thru Peter with her astuteness and he found himself properly evaluating her for, perhaps, the first time. "Yeah. I'm the one who caught him in the first place."

"What for?"

Peter half shrugged, remembering the trial, "We got a charge of forged bonds to stick. Four years, Maximum security."

Beckett shared a slight smile, "What didn't stick?"

Peter smiled back, "He's a con-man, a forger, a thief, ran some books here, there, and Monaco…"

"Quiet the Renaissance Man" Beckett nodded.

"—More Impressionist, Pre-Impressionist—"

"Forgeries" Beckett pinned, nodding along. "So why'd he come here?"

Peter's shoulders fell. "This is listed as his girlfriend's place. It's why I came here. It's how we got him in cuffs last time."

"Well I hate to tell you this but it's been cleaned out for a while" Beckett shared. A clatter of people left with the stretcher and the body, Detective Esposito wandering over as a few techs continued crawling over every inch of space, one taking photos of the place where Neal had lain, white chalk echoing the position of his body save where the spread of blood flowered out, obliterating his shape from his torso to just beneath the crown of his head.

Detective Esposito waived a large evidence bag at Burke encasing an empty green wine bottle. "Any idea's about this? It's got some of prints on it."

Peter took the bag by its edge, lifting it high so it dangled between his face and the windows. He noted the label to ask his wife El about when he finally got home. "No idea" Peter weighed in, handing it back.

Detective Beckett produced a business card and handed it over to him, "I"d really appreciate it if you can make some time for me in the next couple of days, Agent Burke."

He glanced at the card, nodding. "How were you called here?"

"Neighbor downstairs reported gunshots. Said he hadn't heard anything out of this unit for weeks" Beckett shared.

"What's the girlfriend's name?" Detective Esposito asked.

"Katherine Moreau. Goes by Kate."

"She by any chance a Mob Princess?" Esposito asked.

Peter sighed, "Not even close."

"Any idea's why you're escapee went 12 rounds before he got tapped out?" Esposito continued.

"No. He stayed pretty clean inside and he has a reputation outside that negates this kind of violence. All I know is Kate stopped visiting him six weeks ago and this morning he walked out the front doors from prison and ended up here."

The three stood together in silence, each contemplating their own tangent.

"I look forward to hearing from you, Agent Burke" Detective Beckett spoke up, nodding politely and walked out, Detective Esposito at her side.

Peter looked at her business card again then tucked it away behind his shield, slipping his badge back inside his jacket. He looked over the apartment again, this time with the eye of an investigator. Dust motes swirled thru the air from so many bodies disturbing the open, empty space. Peter nodded at the LEO's and walked into the open bathroom, pulling a fresh glove from one of the boxes into this palm. He flicked open the medicine cabinet finding it clean, empty. He swung it shut, the latex glove crumpling in his fist. This had been no wipe and run, the loft had been abandoned. The air stale, no one had opened a window or cooked in here for some time, only the whispers of polyester and rubber and slight taint of iron and gun powder lingering.

Peter wanted the wine bottle. Prints had to mean Neal had handled it. He wanted to know why.

Neal had obviously come for Kate and Kate had left Neal a wine bottle because even though Kate had stopped visiting Neal in prison Kate had counted on Neal to come for her, come for her here, even after she'd abandoned her home. Why?

Peter walked out of Kate Moreau's apartment with a new puzzle teasing the fringes of his mind.


	2. It Must Be Tuesday

It Must be Tuesday

Kate deftly poured out a round of Jameson for the three regulars still standing, for herself and for Bobby.

"Cheers" Ira toasted. "Cheers" she and Dave echoed back and then five bumped the glasses down on the wood and swallowed away the whiskey.

Bobby gathered the shot glasses with his long, deft fingers and went back to washing the nights remaining glassware. Kate kept her glance off his hands as a rule, too many associations…. but tonight she couldn't help just a peak. She wondered if Bobby had ever tried sculpting, wondered how deft he'd be at something like that, if she'd find echoes there too - and pain ricocheted out of her heart to the tips of her fingers and psyche.

"You've got a look about on you tonight, Janey" Dave commented.

"She's always got a look" John returned.

Ira, on the end of the three, simply shook his head, back to nursing his final beer of the night.

Kate ignored them and moved down the bar to her till, popping it open to begin organizing her money. It was the weekday night ritual: Lock the doors, pour a round for any soul standing, count out and put the bar's money in the safe while leaving the bar back - almost always Bobby - to get every one else out while she entered the day's take in for Marie, the owner. It was a small, neighborhood bar with just enough of a kitchen to serve burgers and sandwiches and a mac and cheese good enough to write home about during the day and with eggs, hash and pancakes in the morning.

Today had been visitor's day. Today had been the sixth time she hadn't made it after three and a half years of clock work: showing up, being friendly with the guards and making the entire rigamarole run as smooth as she could, as smoothly as he'd taught her too. Neal. Damn it - Kate pulled out the till and slammed the drawer closed with more force than necessary. She didn't look left or right as she stalked out from behind the bar but nodded and gave a smooth smile as she slid past the trio, slid past Bobby still washing while bulling the guys to finish up their beers, and used her key to get into the back hallway and office.

Back at the bar Dave turned on John, "You can't tell me she's not got something extra going on today" Dave insisted.

John shook his head, meeting Dave's eyes, working on his own beer, "She smiled tonight just fine."

"She always smiles fine" Ira interrupted the bickering, his tone flat.

"See!" Dave exclaimed.

John rolled his eyes, "Dave, man, your missing it. Janey always smiles, for every one, even when she's throwing them out on their asses. Even when they're threatening to make a mess she just tosses them out and keeps going."

Back in the office Kate filled and entered the paperwork for the day's take, putting the bar money in the safe and entering her inventory and sales into the computer while she counts out her own money from the day, folding it into her wallet before closing the spread sheets. It was a slow day and she's not in the mood to go up and small-chat with the men as the relinquish their stools before heading home. They mean nothing but the best but Kate doesn't have any kind of patience to mother their insecurities or neuroses tonight. She has too many of her own and, besides, the night is over. She pulls up the security cameras on the computer, two over the bar, one over each exit, one street, one alley, and catches a familiar half silhouette haunting the alley camera. Damn. She really thought she'd disappeared but if anyone could find her it would be him…

The cameras in the bar show Bobby locking the doors on an empty bar. Soon enough there's a polite rap against the frosted, scaled glass of the office door, enough to swing it in. "Hey, Jane, Ready to go?"

Kate shakes her head, frowning disappointedly, handing off his take. "Not yet. I need to get everything entered in inventory for Marie" the lie trips easily into being.

Bobby just nodes, motioning at himself.

Kate jumps slightly, like it just occurred to her, "No, no! Go! Sorry. I'm just being slow."

"You going to be okay getting home?"

Kate shrugs a shoulder, "Still got my taser."

Bobby nods and then is gone. The bar lights shut off and she listens as the back door catches and the only source of light the overheads in the office and what leeks in from the city that never, ever, sleeps. Her eyes go back to the surveillance playing on the monitor and she watches Bobby saunter off, cock sure and fancy free like only some one 22 can be. Its fast but she catches the silhouette cross the ally to become part of the solid black of the wall of this building, expertly imperceptible all the way to the door. She's ready and waiting when the knock finally comes.

A waltz raps out and she pulls it open, Moz catching the door half open and sliding thru only to press it closed at his back. He glares at her thru the ambient light spilling in from outside, street traffic sending racing patches of light flaring and refracting off anything with a sheen or reflection.

"What have you done?" He hisses.

Kate slaps him, surprising herself a little, stinging his cheek and her hand, staring down at his for all she's worth. "You're the one haunting my doorstep" she returns.

"Touche."

Both stare at each other, in impasse, for several moments.

"I have some wine in back" Kate offers finally.

"Lefite?"

"2-buck-chuck."

Mozzie deflates, "It'll have to do."

Kate leads the way, moving past the office into one of the supply rooms, the light steady back here thanks to the incandesce overhead that she actually pulls on with a snap of a chain. She lifts an actual bottle of wine from one of the less trafficked corners of the and presents it to Mozzie. Some of his frown clears and he makes a pleased sound. It's part apology, part forgiveness, not actually giving him 2-buck-chuck. It's like so much of their relationship, that they are something together caught in necessary but unsought; like Neal is their sun and they just fell the same gravitational sphere. Mozzie wastes no time scurrying out and reappearing with appropriate glasses.

Solemnly Kate fills both glasses when he returns, letting the bottle clink dully on the cement floor at her feet when she's done and she takes the offered glass from Mozzie regally offers. Both hold the vino gently in their palm, breathing, and meet each others eyes.

"Neal's dead" Mozzie announces quietly.

Kate flinches, hard. She drains half the glass and looks at Mozzie. "How?"

"Single GSW in his omniscient eye after his fingers were broken and a few of his ribs cracked."

The wine doesn't agree with her. It wants out. Or Kate doesn't agree and the only thing she might expel is the wine. Poor wine, it's such a nice vintage. God Damned Tuesdays.

"Where?"

"You're old apartment." Mozzie condemns. "Every one showed up; Neal, the NYPD, the FBI, the Marshals, even SWAT."

Kate's lungs empty, "No" she barely sounds. "No"

"Good thing he walked out of that Maximum Security Prison so easily, huh, Kate."

Kate simply glares at him.

"What did you tell him to get him to chase after you again? You couldn't be content to leave him be for ninety six more days? Ninety six more days and you could have shown up at the gate, picket him up and driven off into the sunset to live out your little fantasy of breeding in suburbia!"

"Jesus" Kate hisses at him. "I didn't think he'd actually get out" she amends.

Mozzie levels the coldest look at her she's ever seen, his face dead, his eyes reptilian, and she remembers that he started out in Detroit and made a fool of the Detroit Mob, that, with less whimsy and fewer morals he'd be a perfect assassin — no one would see him coming and he's very good at chemistry and is far too good with working Rube Goldberg models. "Neal's the Golden Child, he wants something, he gets it. He got you back, after all."

That was below the belt low and the sucker punch forces the wine burning up a second time. "It's not like that" Kate begs.

"So tell me" Mozzie challenges, squaring himself to her, his arms folded with his hand cradling the wine glass level in front of his heart.

"Two months ago I noticed I was being followed. I didn't want to mention anything to Neal, I figured the Feds were just harassing me again. The next visit a Fed was waiting for me outside the prison when I was done. He took me for a ride, told me Burke was still after Neal, that Burke could find enough for a life sentence and leveraged that he could make deal for Neal instead, immunity if he coped to everything he'd taken and turned it over. A clean slate. He showed me the paperwork and it was good — legitimate even…"

Mozzie snorted.

Kate rolled her eyes. "Don't bother. I wasn't biting. He gave me a fake name but he was in a Fed car. He spoke Fed."

"Can't fake Fed" Mozzie begrudgingly agreed.

"It gets better" Kate continues. "The next week, the agent's waiting for me again."

"You went back?" Mozzie nearly spits in the wine he's so aghast.

"Mozzie, visiting hours are set. One of the many many many reasons you refuse to go see Neal yourself."

Mozzie grunts at that.

"He handed me Ellen Parker's address. He said if I wouldn't help he was going to Ellen next."

Mozzie went white. He lifted the wine to his lips and sipped. He lowered the glass down even with his elbow. "Oh."

"I panicked. I took the Fed to Neal's stash in San Diego —"

"It's in Portland" Mozzie corrected her.

"Well it's not in San Diego" Kate sniped back. "Or, at least, it's not where Neal told me it was in San Diego."

Mozzie nodded sagely, "Very good. He'd told neither of us the true location. I've taught him well."

"Well, Sensei" Kate interrupted, "I made with the disappearing. Again. I broke up with Neal in an open facsimile of a phone booth where the plexiglass was between us with a greasy plastic black phone from the seventies pressed to my ear and made him break four feet away from me with no way to touch him. I haven't touched him in years, Mozzie, years, and I told him it was over and that it had "been real". "Been real" was all I could come up with, that and some other shit I don't even remember because I was tapping out a message with my finger on my thigh which I know he didn't see because he was staring into my eyes as I broke his heart." Kate's vision is blurred and her throat is tight, her voice hoarse as she finishes.

This sits between them, everything she's disgorged. Kate swallows. Slowly her pulse fades back to a background murmur. With a sigh Kate picks up the wine bottle and fills her glass up, millimeters within the brim. She tilts the bottle over Mozzie's glass next, his acquiescence automatic, and she empties the bottle, rising his to half full. They sip in unison.

"You have some where safe?" Mozzie hazards.

Kate nods her head, stupidly, thinking of the studio she'd found four blocks away for cash off the books, leased to and Ashley Danielson while she's holding this job under the name Jane Palmer. It's a cramped and a walk up but it had an artist's light coming thru the windows she told herself and she'd gotten over the kitchen and bath being separated by a opalescent plastic screen after a two days. Also, no roaches and barely any mice.

"Good. I couldn't even find it" Mozzie compliments. Kate just drinks. Six weeks is all it took and now Neal's dead, its over — what ever it was they were, their story is done. She's alone.

Mozzie nods, decisively. "If you have to drop this job leave a note for me under the nom de guerre Oliver Athos."

"Not Rene Aramis?" Kate volley's back.

Mozzie levels a dirty glare on her. He hands over a folded slip of paper. "This is October. Don't use it" then, more quietly, "I like October."

Kate slips the slip of paper held between his fingers with her own two fingers and brushes it into her back pocket in an easy gesture. "I'll be fine, Mozzie" Kate soothes. "they can't even find me and I'm still in the same town."

"They found Neal."

Self-hate burns thru Kate, "They must have still been watching my place. Its the only way the Fed could have cornered him."

"They broke his fingers" Mozzie adds.

Kate tilts her head at him and Mozzie shrugs, "Passive alerts. I got there as fast as I could, to the cafe across the street, but by then it was the NYPD Homicide as the opening circus act…"

"Neal doesn't tell, he doesn't give any thing away" Kate stated.

"and Neal's dead" Mozzie follows up.

"Ellen's fine, no one's bothered her. I fell for a bluff -" Kate builds.

"and Neal doesn't tell" Mozzie repeated. "This isn't about Neal. This is about something Neal did."

Mozzie nodes decisively, "I'm going to go and get Neal. It might take a day" he cautions, drains the last of his wine, and then slips out, his voice echoing back "Cremation. Okay?" and it twists a bittersweet smile across Kate's lips. She listens to the heavy fall of the back door. She tilts her glass up between her lips, and looks at it once she levels it. Theres still some left. She swirls it inside the bowl of the glass, thinking. She swallows and then lifts the glass to her lips, drains the rest. She takes care to blow on the shelf, redistributing the dust into enough of a cloud to hide the filched bottle.


End file.
